Alive
by Sharmain
Summary: Watson reflects on the events between Germany and meeting up with Mycroft in Switzerland and all of the hell Sherlock Holmes has edured along the way.


_Screaming._

John Watson awoke with a sharp jolt, a thin layer of sweat coating his brow as his heart beat at a rapid and thundering pace, thumping loud like a war drum in his ears. He sat up from where he lay and his eyes darted about the nearly black room, mind racing as he tried to make out something , anything to indicate just exactly where he was. Watery blue eyes peered out into the inky blackness that engulfed the majority of the room like a sinister shroud. Hands moved to lay at his sides and Watson felt soft linen under his hands. Ah.

He was in a bed, and the moment his eyes fell upon a still figure a ways from him, illuminated by a sliver of silver moonlight and lying in a bed of his own, Watson relaxed. Memories suddenly came rushing back at him at a bracing pace. The telegram, the note, the ammunitions factory, the tower.

Holmes.

Watson slowly laid himself back down onto the crisp, white sheets, his head resting on a soft pillow as he gazed out into darkness, mind meticulously sorting through recent events.

His thoughts wandered firstly to the note he'd found when he returned from sending the telegram Holmes had requested to his brother.

_Come at once if convenient. If inconvenient, come all the same._

It was just exactly something Sherlock Holmes would leave for him. Watson flipped the stiff printing paper over to see a charcoal sketch- the tower that loomed high over the ammunitions factory. He then knew at once that Holmes had purposely put himself in trouble and he was needed, as always, to be there when he was requested. At once he set out to find the exact angle of the tower the drawing depicted, walking around a coner into the bright white light that shined above.

He gazed up at the high tower that radiated bright light at its peak and glanced down at the paper. It was a match then. Suddenly there was a guard, yelling at him in German and Watson froze, hands flying into the air in a gesture of surrender. He listened to the guard and got onto his knees, trying to find a window of opportunity to disarm and incapacitate him, when something flew through the air and suddenly the guard was lying on the ground, dead- shot in the back. Watson darted for cover behind a giant metal structure as another bullet pierced the night and came flying towards him from a gunman positioned high above the good doctor.

All of a sudden music rang static yet clear through the air, shattering the frigid cold and the near silence as it blared through speakers and echoed hauntingly through the brick and metal compound in the dark night. Watson looked around in confusion and another bullet grazed past the structure he was hiding behind.

"_One of Moriarty's games, I'm sure," _Watson guessed, and then suddenly his blood ran cold.

Screaming.

Blood curdling, gut-wrenching, chill-inducing screaming rang loud and clear against the backdrop of the operatic music that blared into the night. Watson felt his stomach drop and his heart beat thrumming wildly against his ribcage, as if trying to escape and rush to the aid of the only man those pained screams cold belong to.

Holmes.

Watson's mind raced as he tried to formulate a plan. He noticed light from the tower filtering through a gap in the structure and experimentally held the cap he'd swiped off the desk at the telegram office out to the light. Almost instantly a bullet sliced through the fabric, leaving a very tangible hole in its wake. A groan escaped his hips and blue eyes darted around, scanning the area for anything that could be of use. His eyes landed on a pair of what appeared to be earmuffs, designed to block out loud sounds that could potentially burst eardrums and cause all sorts of medical problems. Watson looked up and noticed that the structure he was utilizing as shelter from gunfire actually seemed to be a gun itself.

A big gun.

Watson moved as fast of his body allowed and hauled himself upwards to the top of the gun, taking only a few moments to familiarize himself with the mechanisms before slapping on the earmuffs and aiming the gun towards where his assailant had to be, judging by the angle of the gunshots.

"_Please don't let Holmes be in that tower_," Watson thought before firing the beast. With a tremendous kick the gun fired and its large bullet sailed through the air. Watson was thrown with explosive force away from the machine, landing flat on his back, the earmuffs askew on his face. He could hear the tower collide with the factory below with a tremendous growl and he quickly up-righted himself and descended the bun before running towards the scene.

Watson was terrified that he'd collapsed the tower on top of his friend, but once he'd climbed into the rubble he heard Holmes' voice, faint but very much there and rather sarcastic, though his words were said in a breathy, pained voice.

Watson found Holmes lying in the brick with a hook shoved into his chest below his right shoulder. He swiftly removed it and he and Holmes carried on, all the while Holmes' screams echoing through his head.

"_Always good to see you Watson_."

The next events progressed at a rapid pace: trying to escape the men firing at them, Holmes' snarky "_You didn't find me, you collapsed a building on me_!", running through the forest like game being hunted, the ground and trees combusting around them. Reflecting upon them now, Watson could only remember one exact sequence of events with severe, unrelenting clarity.

"_He's not breathing_."

Panic had risen up inside him as he commanded Simza to hold his head and raise his legs as he pushed against Holmes' chest, having no effect on the man as he lay, not moving, not living, on the wooden floor. It was by chance that Watson had remembered Holmes' wedding present and immediately shoved the thing in Holmes' chest.

After Holmes miraculously came back to life, he immediately decided upon the next course of action that now found himself and Watson in their current predicament, which was, staying with Mycroft Holmes in Switzerland and awaiting their next move to prevent a murder that could ignite a war that would engulf the entire world.

When they had arrived to meet Mycroft, Watson had insisted he first take care of Holmes' injuries, much to the detective's dismay.

"I'm right as rain now that you've jolted me back to life and removed that insufferable spike of wood from my ankle," Holmes defended once they were all inside the cozy wooden home Mycroft had brought them to.

"Homes," Watson pleaded, exasperation evident in his voice. "I must insist. Your shoulder needs to be taken care of. _You were stabbed with a hook_."

"Yes, and I now know the startlingly reality of what it is like to be a fish," Holmes said dismissively with a wave of his hand. "Can we move on to more pressing matters?" Watson glared and stepped towards the shorter man, blue eyes steely as he stared him down with all of the force he would muster in his tired body.

"As your doctor and your friend, I demand that you let me see to your wounds," he said seethingly. "I will not lose you _again_." Holmes froze where he stood for a moment and Watson was shocked and delighted to see the calm, airy demeanor in which Holmes presented himself fade just the slightest bit, letting Watson take a peek at the injured, tired man underneath. Watson stepped forward and wrapped his fingers around Holmes' arm.

"Come," he said gently. "I will be quick. Then you can reveal your plans to us all."

"Just plan," Holmes corrected, but followed obediently as Watson ascended a flight of steps and tried to remember just what room it was Mycroft had informed him he could use to treat, as he put it, "my capricious and ill-mannered brother".

Watson led them into a small bedroom with a solitary bed with white linen sheets and commanded Holmes to remove his shirt and sit on the bed. As Holmes complied, Watson sat his surgical bag on the bedside table and walked over to the water basin, thankful that it was already filled with lukewarm water and an array of wash cloths had been set aside for, no doubt, Watson's use. He moved these things to the bedside table as well, all the while analytical brown eyes watched him like an intrigued, observant cat watching a fly.

"Tell me Holmes," Watson said as he rolled up his sleeves before he dipped a cloth into the water and soaked it thoroughly before wringing the excess back into the basin. "How is it you came to have a hook shoved into your shoulder?" He turned to look at his companion, who adjusted himself on the bed before answering.

"Ah, yes," Holmes began, leaning forward as he always did when regaling a tale. "It was Moriarty's doing. I was apprehended and subsequently rendered incapacitated for a short while before awakening to find myself in the company of Professor Moriarty himself. He felt the need to utilize torture as a means of extracting information from me." Watson hesitated for a moment before looking at Holmes with too blue eyes and asked,

"What did he do, exactly?" Holmes sighed and winced minutely as he disturbed his right shoulder.

"The hook, which you saw, was shoved into my shoulder, where I then was suspended into the air by means of a pulley. Being suspended was rather easy to handle, as I merely needed to pull myself upwards to distribute my body weight evenly and avoid tugging on internal ligaments and organs. It was when Moriarty felt the need to swing my around like a human pendulum when-"

"You screamed," Watson interjected; staring out into something Holmes could neither see nor hear. Holmes appeared surprised.

"Yes, as most men do when experiencing intense pain-"

"I heard you," Watson said distantly, setting down the damp wash cloth. Holmes cocked his head to the side, obviously confused.

"You heard me?" Holmes asked, looking at the doctor. "How so?" and then he remembered, as his observant senses never let him forget. Moriarty had placed a microphone in front the horn of the phonograph that placed that atrocious opera. Now doubt the wretched device had picked up his screaming, considering its close proximity.

Watson had heard him.

"Well," Holmes said, slapping his hands onto his knees, snapping Watson out of his dark reverie. "I'm alright aren't I? Come, fix me up as doctors do." Watson only nodded and picked up the wash cloth and examined the puncture wound before lightly dabbing the area with the soft, wet cloth. Holmes hissed and tensed up, but said nothing. Watson cleaned the blood and grime from Holmes' shoulder and continued across the planes of his chest, wiping away the dirt and gunpowder from their escape through the forest. Holmes stayed tense through the entire process, feeling very much like an infant.

"Will you be much longer my dear Watson?" Holmes inquired. "As much as I do enjoy your thorough sponge baths, we really must be cracking on."

"I'm nearly done," Watson said quietly, focused. "I need to disinfect your wounds and stitch up your shoulder. I'm very curious as to how you managed to escape the factory and sprint across the forest without passing out. You should have been out long before we reached that train."

"I'm just a fit fiddle I suppose," Holmes said with a sigh.

"Lay down on the bed. It won't take very long," Watson said, turning to remove disinfectant, swabs, and a needle and thread from his bag. He opened the small bottle and soaked a swab of cotton in the disinfectant. Holmes remained stoic as Watson gently cleaned all of the cuts on Holmes' body, from his hands to his arms and chest, to his face. It was quick work, and Watson saved the shoulder wound for last, taking great care to completely disinfect the area with a clean swab. As he turned to grab the needle and thread, Holmes took a deep breath and spoke.

"Watson-"

"Save it Holmes," Watson interrupted in a clipped voice, threading the needle with expert care. "I don't want to hear it. No, I'm not happy. In fact, I'm furious you've put yourself into so much trouble and frankly, I'm pissed you've gone and ruined my honeymoon. Stop asking and let me be relieved you're alive in peace." Holmes stared at Watson, astonished, and kept his mouth shut as Watson sewed him back together again like a broken rag doll and dressed his wounds. Soon Holmes pulled on a clean shirt and Watson was packing up his things after placing Holmes' arm in a sling and telling him _not_ to agitate it. As Holmes adjusted his shirt he turned to Watson, who was standing in front of the large window, out of which he could see the vast expanse of pure, white snow.

"Thank you, my dear Watson," Holmes said, Watson's back facing the detective. Holmes placed his hand on Watson's shoulder, firm and warm. "I am truly sorry." He went to remove his hand when Watson placed his own on top of his, keeping it pressed against his shoulder. Holmes felt the heat radiate off of Watson's hand. They stood in silence for a long moment before Watson removed his hand, gaze fixed on the window in front of him. Holmes squeezed Watson's shoulder before releasing it and exiting the room, leaving the doctor to his own devices.

Watson sighed, turning his head to look over at the still figure in the bed a ways away, watching their chest rise and fall with each living breath. Many different thoughts raged through his mind, and Watson felt all of his anger and frustration felt away at the sight of the rise and fall of Sherlock Holmes' chest. Even after all the man had done to him: put him in danger, attempted to sabotage his relationship with Mary, forgot his stag party, ruined his honeymoon, and led him halfway across Europe-

Watson was only glad that Holmes was alive.


End file.
